Joy or melancholy gives birth to childhood.
In Japan, conception begins childhood.
Born and incubated; four pounds, ten ounces;
an ironic late bloomer since childhood.
Parents did not always entertain children.
We came home before the sun went down: childhood.
Drunk or injured friends’ mothers would walk funny.
My mother barely walked during my childhood.
My father labored sixteen hours each work day.
He slept away the weekends of my childhood.
My sister had myotonic dystrophy.
She had everything except a childhood.
A hurricane blew down my weeping willow.
In its branches, I wrote—my private childhood.
I would sometimes hold my breath till I passed out.
Was I suicidal in my childhood?
I set a record for getting in trouble.
One teacher believed I was not a child hood.
One teacher complimented my poetry—
the first happy moment of my childhood.
A friend chasing a foul ball struck by a car.
The end of his life, the end of my childhood.
I have memories of being a young child
but could easily forget my childhood.
Children dying because they lack clean water.
I thank God for my bountiful childhood.
Thomas Locicero’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Roanoke Review, Boston Literary Magazine, Long Island Quarterly, The Good Men Project, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Jazz Cigarette, Quail Bell Magazine, Antarctica Journal, Rat’s Ass Review, Scarlet Leaf Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, Hobart, Ponder Review, vox poetica, Poetry Pacific, Brushfire Literature & Arts Journal, Indigo Lit, Saw Palm, Fine Lines, New Thoreau Quarterly, Birmingham Arts Journal, Clockwise Cat, Snapdragon, felan, The Ghazal Page, Red Savina Review, Better Than Starbucks, Poetry Quarterly, 50 Haikus, The Write Launch, Haiku Journal, and Bindweed Magazine, among other journals. He lives in Broken Arrow, OK.